


The sum of its parts - 9 Scenes from a Fall

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Joanlock - Freeform, Reichenswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series a vignettes, most previously posted on tumblr but here altered and added to. Watson solves the problem by taking a fall. Sherlock waits.<br/>I'm trying a less linear approach to telling a story. Feel free to let me know if it doesn't work for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sum of its parts - 9 Scenes from a Fall

III.  
The car raced towards the flashing lights. Stopping as close to the site as possible, Marcus and Sherlock jumped out of the vehicle and ran. 

The small figure of Joan Watson perched on the edge of the narrow steel ledge stopped them cold. She faced the dark water of the East River, her hands behind her held onto to the bridge's metal rail. 

Sherlock walked towards her, motioning to Marcus to stay back. "Watson?" He called her name out softly in as emotionless a tone as he could manage at that moment.

Joan carefully turned to face him. The wind blew her hair up and back and then swirled it in all directions. "Sherlock, stay where you are." Her voice also was devoid of emotion.

"I just want to talk to you..." Maintaining eye contact, he continued moving towards her until he was almost face to face with her.

"There's nothing to say, Sherlock. I've caused enough damage. It's time."

He held his hands out to show he was not going to attempt anything and took one step closer, leaving him a foot or so away from her, the railing between them. Sherlock's voice dropped to a low whisper ensuring only Watson could hear him. "Very dramatic Watson. Very dramatic. You know you don't have to do this. We can find another way."

Her voice was barely audible. "No, we discussed this. It needs to be done. I'll be apologizing to Marcus for the rest of my life for this," Joan stole a glance in Bell's direction, "that is if the fall doesn't kill me."

Sherlock winced, "Please, don't. I'm not sure how or why I agreed to this. You are positive that ..."

"Yes. I know what I'm doing." She bent her head closer to him and whispered, "It'll be alright. I'll be alright. I promise you." 

He shook his head and heaved a resigned sigh, "I've confirmed with Pedro, the boat is in position. As soon as you are able you will contact me, understood?"

"Understood." Joan leaned in, placing her forehead close to his, "in case I don't make it, tell Clyde I love him." A soft kiss followed her statement. Not allowing herself time to change her mind, Joan abruptly turned toward the water and cast herself into the darkness.

"Watson!" He yelled and made a too-late attempt to stop her.

"Joan!" Marcus rushed towards him. "You could have stopped her!" He shook a genuinely dazed Sherlock. "Why didn't you stop her!"

 

******  
I.

"He is the person you care most about in the world. Admit it. And what do you think he'll say when I tell him you betrayed him, that you whispered all his secrets to me? Hmm?" Moriarty's crooked smile taunted her from the computer screen.

"He'll know you're lying." Joan was unfazed by the threats.

Jamie sat back and made herself comfortable. "Oh, but you see, he won't. He still has a rather large blind spot when it comes to me. And I lie oh so well." Her smug tone grated on Joan but she maintained her aloof air.

"Go ahead. Give it a try.... You've obviously never loved or been loved have you? You've only experienced the gloss never the grit of the emotion."

"So you admit you love him?" Her blonde locks fell forward as she tilted her head and once more moved towards the screen. "You think you have him wrapped around your little finger...."

Joan rolled her eyes and mumbled. "It's like talking to a twelve year old...." She leaned in, and continued, "Caring for someone is not about possessing them. You want to hold Sherlock tight in your grip, like an excited four year old with a small bird, killing it with the need to keep it near." 

"My, my, Joanie, you don't mind if I call you Joanie, hmm? You are just full of bad analogies and cliched advice. You could never understand the deep, pure nature of the connection Sherlock and I have..."

"Whatever Jamie. I've had enough of this. I'll tell Sherlock you said hi." And with that she clicked the computer off. 

"Well, that should infuriate the woman." 

Joan turned her attention to the left and smiled at Sherlock. "Jamie says hi." 

"What do you suppose she was after?"

"You. ..... She's after you. The woman hates to lose and she's lost you to me .... not that she ever honestly had you or ... or that I have you ... I mean ... you know what I mean ...."

"Hmmm." Sherlock shifted in his seat and watched her for a moment. "Am I?"

"Are you what?" 

"Am I the person you care about most ...." His voice trailed off and his focus shifted to the floor.

"Of course not." Her answer was so quick and dry and totally unexpected that he lifted his head and trained his eyes on hers.

"Clyde comes first." 

 

******  
II.  
Joan's phone dinged, signally a message from an unknown number. Below the number just one word, "Oren?" 

She swiped at the screen and found an image attached to the text: her brother on a gurney, his car behind him demolished. A text came in underneath the photo, "Unfortunately, he's alright. Just a broken arm. I'll try harder next time. Your parents live in Scarsdale, I believe?"

"What is it?" Sherlock watched the color drain from her face. "Watson?"

Shaking, she handed him her phone and he scrolled through the texts. 

 

******  
IV.  
Foggy patches grew and dissipated on the cold glass-pane. Behind him, the old house, dark and quiet, stood vigil with him. The street, lit in garish fluorescents, revealed nothing. His senses strained to catch the slightest hint of ... of what? A shadow, a familiar gesture in a stray passerby, the click of a lock ... nothing.

They were pointless, these nights spent by the window. He knew she was safe. But he didn't know where she was or when he'd see or even speak to her again. 

The phone vibrated against the wood of the windowsill and then lit the glass in blues and whites. A blocked number. He took all calls these days, just in case.

"Hello," he waited and listened to the split second of silence. 

"Sherlock? It's Kitty. I heard about Watson. I'm so sorry. How are you?"

He vacillated. He had to lie to her, for all their sakes. "I guess I'm still in shock, numb ... but sober, you needn't worry..."

"I understand. I won't keep you. I just wanted you to know I heard from mum." A small silence. "She sends her best. She was worried about you and wanted to make sure you were alright."

It took Sherlock no time to catch on. His heart pounded. He took in a sharp breath. "Tell mum I'm fine and not to worry. How is she, by the way?"

"Good, good ... a little lonely perhaps but you know how that is."

"Yes. Tell her dad says to take care of herself ..." He smiled into the phone as his voice trailed off.

"I will. I'd best go. We don't want company."

"Understood. Thank you, Kitty. I appreciate the call." The line went dead.

****  
V.  
The room was not much more than a closet, dull brown, with a twin bed and a sink. In its darkness, she listed and replayed every mistake, every missed opportunity, every emotional failure that peppered her multi-chaptered life. Outside the dusty window, the Nevada desert, lit in weak moonlight, spread flat in all directions ... barren ... dry ... cold. It matched the way she felt. Faking death took its toll. 

After a lengthy and heated discussion, Joan and Sherlock had decided her "death" was their best plan of action. Well, she decided and he eventually agreed. At this moment, she wished she had not been so persuasive.

The only other person aware of her false demise was her mother. She and Sherlock could not fathom having Mary needlessly suffer the pain of losing Joan. No matter what her neurological issues might be, Joan knew that her mom, strong and fierce in her love, would never betray her. 

The bed creaked as she settled in, rearranged the one thin pillow and tried not to think .... but as they always did about this time of night, her thoughts turned to Sherlock. 

It wasn't the first time they spent time apart. He was more than capable of taking care of himself and the situations her death might trigger. No cause for worry existed but still she did. More than worry, though, she missed him ... missed having him to talk to, to scold, to banter, to walk with and eat with. She missed the electric thrill of finishing each other's thoughts, of catapulting each other forward, of standing on each other's shoulders as they reached for solutions.... She missed sitting, reading by the fire, just knowing he was there. 

Joan sighed and forced her eyes shut, repeating the nightly mantra to herself: "Sherlock is fine. He's safe. There is no reason to worry ...." until the hazy glow of the darkened room enveloped her and she drifted off to sleep.

****  
VI.  
Honey dripped in long slow strings onto the shards of glass. The bees, her bees, swarmed angrily around him, their buzzing reaching a crescendo that almost masked his wails. He kicked at the pieces of the hive until he found the compartment that held the letters. He heaved the wooden box into the air smashing it down with such force that it splintered and cracked open. Papers flew in all directions as he screamed his partner's name with such desperation that it roused him from his sleep .... 

Panting, her name echoing in his ears, Sherlock bolted upright and raced towards the roof. The door banged open and he strode determinedly forward.

The hives were intact.... the bees in their place. But Watson .... his Watson .... was not. 

He wiped at his face with both hands. Watson was alright he told himself. He knew she was alright. The world might think her dead but she was safe ... He knew she was safe .... somewhere... she was safe ...

Sherlock lowered himself to the floor and sat crossed legged before their hives; rocking back and forth, he tried to stop his mind from racing to horrid scenarios. "She'll be home soon enough. ... She'll be home soon enough...." Repeating the phrase like a mantra, he drifted into a half sleep. 

 

****  
VII.  
She awoke to the almost imperceptible touch of fingertips brushing cross her cheek. Joan knew it was him. 

Her eyes opened into his; wide and intense in the darkness, they brimmed with fear and child-like tenderness. Sherlock knelt by her bedside, face inches from hers. Joan's lips parted in happiness and awe at the sight of him. Relieved, he cupped her face and she leaned into his touch. Joan reached for him and his head moved forward, coming to rest at her shoulder. Breathing each other in, hearts racing, neither said a word.

Joan moved to provide enough room for him on the bed and he responded. The small bed groaned and squeaked in protest as he lay beside her. Arms wrapped around each other, heads nestled into the other's neck, they held on until their heart beats slowed, breathing synced and they fell asleep.

*****

VIII.  
Joan woke up with a start... he was gone. She sat up and scanned the tiny room. The amber light of dawn sifted through the grimy window. She was alone. 

 

*****  
IX.  
The wind whispered and the leaves above him trembled in response. Sherlock stood at the base of the old tree. The thick fog circled and swallowed his thin form. Knowing this moment would come, he had waded through months of solitude, endured the pity of friends, ignored the issuance of a death certificate and waited for a sign. Her sign.

The note appeared in the daily mail; a sheet of ruled notebook paper, a penciled message in her hand. “The tree 1:00 a.m.” That’s all he needed.

She now materialized out of the darkness. Her small frame slowly walked towards him and stopped. As if on silent cue, they rushed towards each other. He scooped her to him. She clasped onto him meaning to never let him go again. 

The feel of her body tight against his, her breath warm on on his neck was not enough to verify her reality. His hands rose to her head and pulled her back so he could see her face. Fingers threaded through her hair as he sought her eyes in the fog-filtered moonlight. For a brief second they searched each other's face before a surge of emotion sent them crushing forwards. Lips met and parted and mingled with their tears expressed their joy and passion, the end of months of longing and sadness found expression.

They pulled away for air and surprised at the shared intimacy, smiled happily. Joan touched his face and wiped the remnants of tears from his cheek. Her smile faded as she remembered the long months spent apart. The moment once more pulled them into each other's arms, head buried in each other's neck. 

Sherlock and Joan swayed silently as one in the dark green quiet of the night, once more whole.


End file.
